Hunger
by deathofaraven
Summary: Sometimes when you have to steal to eat, you discover something entirely new that makes you just as famished. Cute-ish fic.


Disclaimer: I don't own the world of Harry Potter or I would've come out with an eigth book. I'm not making money off of this, so please don't sue me.

Ather's note: This idea has been bothering me for literally six months. :/ I've been having writer's block in other stories so I decided to write this. Maybe it'll turn into a two-shot, maybe not. I haven't decided. Reveiw and tell me what you think.

* * *

As usual, New Year's Eve was incredibly, unbearably cold. Ice coated streets and street lamps and telephone wires. Snow lay thick upon the side walks and roof tops, and lightly coated cars and plants like powdered sugar. Almost every building in London had their windows lit warmly as the glass fogged up from the outside cold.

Tom frowned as he rubbed his hands together, trying not to show how much the cold was affecting him. This had to be one of the worse birthdays he'd ever had. Nobody had said anything to him about it. Usually, he despised the reminder of another year gone by. What was the point in celebrating? No money, no family, no presents, and, worst of all, no food. But this year, it made him feel lonely when all that had been done to mark the day was that two of the orphanage's matrons exchanged knowing looks when he passed.

Now, he was standing in a beggarly part of town, considering where to go. Not back yet. He didn't feel like having to continuously 'explain' to the other boys that he 'disliked' being called a freak. It got rather boring after a while and he loathed unamusing things.

Frosty air bit at his fingers through gloves that were more holes than material. He'd have to take some new ones soon.

Tom wandered through an almost empty shop-lined street. It was mostly dark here, but it didn't frighten or worry him. He was used to it by now. Enviously, the ten-year-old eyed the coats of some of the passers-by. Tom could tell they had money simply by the look on their faces. _How terribly sad,_ he thought sarcastically, _that you have to walk through this part of London to get back to your fancy homes and cars._ He would've thrown a snowball at them to amuse himself . . . if he wasn't so damn cold! There had to be somewhere, anywhere, he could find a place to warm up. _And possibly nick some food_, he mentally added as his stomach gave an almost audible grumble.

It was then that Tom Riddle became aware of an extremely seductive smell. He followed it almost blindly, something he'd never done before, until he came up to a small bakery. The windows were full of the most delectable cakes and puddings he'd ever seen. Oddly enough, there were no prices on anything that he could see through the dimly lit window. And, almost everyone who passed by didn't acknowledge it's existence. Surely he was hallucinating. Was he? How long had it last been since he'd eaten or slept properly? _I'll just have to go along back and see if I can't find anything there._ A small part of him thought it was hopeless, the rest of him shut that part up. Self doubt got you nowhere. And he always got what he wanted. Well, _almost_ always.

He slipped around the back of the shop like a tall, slim shadow and peeked in the open window. It appeared to be where whomever-it-was-that-made-the-cakes cooked. Warm light bounced off some burnished copper pans and pots. A fire crackled merrily as a very large pot of what smelled like stew was bubbling away. A pie was cooling on a rack and an iced cake was sitting, unfinished, on a silver cake stand.

_Whoever was cooking's going to come back soon, it's too risky. Forget risky, grab something and run. Run and get caught? Not and starve. Do and get arrested and a beating. Just grab something. It's your birthday! You deserve a treat. But-- _Tom stopped arguing with himself as a person came back into the room. No, not just a person; a girl.

She had shoulder-length reddish orange hair, like fox fur. Her emerald green eyes were dejected and forlorn. Tom had never seen such a defeated look in the eyes of someone who seemed to have so much. He watched the way the flickering firelight turned her skin golden while she rolled out a sheet of fondant and easily covered the cake. The girl, who ever she was, turned away to put the cake up for later decorating, as Tom's eyes fell on a nearby bowl of fruit and a brownie. It took all of two seconds for him to decide that he was going to take them. He summoned them to him, still not quite sure how he did that, and took off down the street like a bat out of hell.

He completely missed the wry smile that appeared on the girl's face when she saw what she'd purposely left out was missing.

Tom took care to make sure no one saw him creep back into the orphanage and into his room before locking the door behind him. Never, in all his years, had he been so grateful that no one wanted to share a room with him. Tom ate slowly, savoring each bite (who knew when he'd get to eat like this again) and smiled, genuinely smiled, when he saw the day had passed. Turning back to his meal, he thought of the girl in the bakery. Maybe 1937 would be better than the previous year.


End file.
